Four Moments
by Kiku-chan214
Summary: He had never stated it was over. He had never asked for the key. He had never told Sherlock to leave. He had, however, started going out to the pubs with Lestrade. He had stopped pointing out the odds and ends of corpses being stored in inconvenient spaces of the flat. Based off of a gifset by tumblr user johnbarrowmanbutt.


_**A/N: I have come out of Fic Retirement to write this for someone on tumblr who made a wonderful gif set that made me want to cry and then die and I don't even admit to shipping Johnlocke... It is short, I hope it makes you cy- I doubt it will. Leave a review, I will answer! **_

_**Thank you tumblr user johnbarrowmanbutt for allowing me to write up your brilliant idea! It was a pleasure!**_

_Four Moments_

He had never stated it was over. He had never asked for the key. He had never told Sherlock to leave. He had, however, started going out to the pubs with Lestrade. He had stopped pointing out the odds and ends of corpses being stored in inconvenient spaces of the flat. He had started spending nights on the couch, falling asleep to Graham Norton – Sherlock seeking him in the night only to see John's head beneath an afghan and the television reflecting Weatherview off of his water glass.

That was a window of time John looked back on as the fourth most painful time of his life- lost in thought. Sherlock had always told him to use his brain and he had, though perhaps not in the way Sherlock had intended. His thought was far more sentimental – emotional. Driven by his heart. It was not goal oriented, there was no mystery. There was a solution to be found but the culprit was not a man. The culprit was not tangible. John didn't know what the culprit was.

Looking back, John could clearly see that the fourth most painful time in his life had been noted, categorized, and interpreted by Sherlock in a way that led the detective to conclude the only possible solution was the second most painful moment in John's life – his immediate departure.. Second only to another of the detective's clever solutions and still taking the lead to John's most painful moment in Afghanistan.

John had come home to a very odd air in the flat. The table was cleared and Sherlock's experiments apparently disposed of. All furniture remained, however. John knew in that moment that Sherlock must have deduced his behavior, although he had been under the impression, at that time, that the man had simply moved his work elsewhere.

It wasn't until an hour later, when he went to see what they had in, that his eyes landed on a small metal object placed alone on the countertop. Simple in its use but complicated in its symbolism, the key sat.

Afterward, John would picture that key on the counter in his mind and stare at it. But on that day, it didn't occur to him right away. It caught his eye and he stepped forward. He picked it up, furrowed his brow, and fiddled with it for a few moments, tapping it lightly on the surface. It wasn't until the thirty-second tap or so that it hit him.

He did not allow himself to conclude, compared to Sherlock he was a rubbish detective. He strode across the flat to their room and threw the door open. Had he allowed himself the ability to move he would have fallen to his knees. The bed remained but every last detail – every last detail of Sherlock had been removed. The pictures of the walls had been taken. The closet had been left open to reveal that the neatly pressed suits had been taken.

John would lie to Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. He would say he did not think of St. Bart's Hospital the moment he entered the room – or rather, he would say he was fine and ignore any more inquiries.

Six months, seventeen days, and three hours later it would all come rushing back to him. Six months, seventeen days, and three hours later, he entered the flat to find the man sitting in his arm chair; elbows on knees, hands pressed together, and fingers pointed under his nose. He did not look up at John as he entered.

John laid his coat purposefully over the back of his own armchair before gathering his courage, standing straight, and turning to him. Still, the detective did not look.

"Sherlock." John managed this in a much colder tone than he had expected. The harsh clip in his voice was a well-deserved one, but it stung John to hear himself.

"Hello, John." Sherlock's voice was a soft murmur, not a single part of his body moving save for his lips. God, how John had missed those lips.

The pain came rushing in like the gust of air thrown over you as you leave a deli. He felt it but he kept it back. "How've you been?"

"Pleasantries, John?" Sherlock stood, as tall and as gracefully as the doctor remembered. There was nearly enough sentiment forming in his chest to rival the hatred that had gathered there.

"Down to business then?" John drew back a little, cocking his head to the side. "You left."

Sherlock's eyes met his in an instant. "You wanted me to."

"I never said that, Sherlock."

"I saw it."

He saw it? What did the brilliant detective see? A John that had been broken? A John on the slow track to healing? "I was pulling you down."

"John?" Sherlock stepped forward. "John, you as well as asked me to leave."

"I never…" John shook his head, anticipating Sherlock's movement and moving back again. In body he was at 221b Baker Street but in his head he was at St. Bart's. In body Sherlock stood only two meters away but in John's mind, Sherlock was on the roof. This was why. Why he had pulled away. How he had dragged Sherlock down with him.

"You showed me." John heard a twinge of pain in the man's voice. "You didn't want…"

This time, he would not succumb. He allowed the anger to well inside of him. He gathered it tightly. He used it. He stepped forward and forced Sherlock back into the armchair. He kept a hand on one of the man's shoulders, keeping him down, and stared him directly in the eyes. "You will never understand the way it felt to come home-" He breathed in sharply, fighting back all but the anger he was allowing. "To come home to nothing. Again."

Sherlock's eyes had widened and, though he refused to acknowledge it, he could hear Sherlock's quick inhalation. "I was... I was so broken and you destroyed me. I hate you for that." John clenched the black suit coat Sherlock wore. He pressed his forehead in, resting it against the younger man's, breathing in his breath. Six months, seventeen days , and three hours since the last time he had been anywhere close enough to touch this man, his flesh. To feel the rumble of his voice resonating in his own chest. "I didn't kick out. I gave you up." He tore himself away, his hand magically landing on his coat as he haphazardly made for the door.

"John, please…" Sherlock had broken the moment John had broken contact. John did not look back. He did not allow himself to stay. He closed the door behind him, took the stairs two at a time, and burst out into the chill breeze. He rubbed his hands over his face, hoping to soothe his muscles and pull back the tears that had finally let themselves fall free.

The detective still sat upstairs, in much the same state, John figured. Pulling himself together. He would not go back upstairs, he decided, as he walked down the block, turned right and sat on a stoop. He would not go back tonight.


End file.
